


X on the Calendar

by Pidonyx



Series: Ghosts [3]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, BABY ENJOY FIC MOMMY WRITE FOR YOU, ENJOY BABY, F/F, Ghosts AU, I recognize that you all are sick of this and the audience grows smaller and smaller, Temporary Character Death, but - Freeform, i don't care, misery and melodrama and continued plotlines!, possessed pharah, say it with me, this is a sequel to Halo but a prequel to Ghosts just like Halo was, we know the drill at this point people
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-16
Updated: 2017-10-16
Packaged: 2019-01-18 10:26:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12386286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pidonyx/pseuds/Pidonyx
Summary: It seems her very existence is a paradox now.More like medical miracle.*When everything has been lost, the only thing you can do is keep fighting.





	X on the Calendar

**Author's Note:**

> What is up! Again! For the third time in less than a week!! What are the odds?!
> 
> I can tell you they are very slim.
> 
> And yet here I am. So! This is a wrap-up (almost 100% for sure) of my Ghosts series, finishing up and circling back to the plot that was started way back in April if you remember. This one is my favorite thus far so I hope you all enjoy!
> 
> This was beta'd just by me, so feel free to point out any errors in the comments!
> 
> The title is from "The Calendar" by Panic! At the Disco

Fareeha's first breath is full of ash and soot that scrapes against her throat on the inhale, mingling with the bitter taste of congealed blood in her mouth.

It's slow, rattling. Her second comes slightly easier, as she coughs to clear her chest of the debris. Her eyes open next. At first she doesn't think they have, because the deep blackness in front of her is so similar to the insides of her lids that she doesn't immediately recognize the difference.

She blinks a few times, and the darkness persists. Fareeha wonders if she's dead. Surely she is. She knows that the amount of blood that had filled her lungs and stomach was not something she should have survived. She remembers. She remembers the cold, the nothing that had abruptly swept her out of the immense pain and the noise. She died. And now she is here.

Where is here?

Fareeha feels as though she's coming out of some kind of cryogenic freeze, her limbs unthawing, her mind working but sluggish. She lifts her arm like she's moving it through molasses, reaching out in front of her to penetrate the shadows, but meeting a solid surface a mere two inches over her face.

It's smooth. Silky. Like a douse of icy water, Fareeha is wide awake. She knows where she is. She's in her own coffin.

What happens next she'll only be able to explain later. Panic flares, bright and hot, and then there's a moment where she feels scrambled, blurred, and she can't tell where anything is -- up or down or left or right. The feeling clears almost as quickly as it came, and she takes a gulp of clean, cool air.

She stumbles, swaying on the spot and pressing her hands into her hair. Nausea churns and for a second she thinks she might throw up. Then, the world comes into a slightly sharper focus and Fareeha slumps to the ground, feeling wet grass blades dampen the fabric on her knees.

She's wearing her dress uniform. Of course.

It takes her a minute or two to steady herself. Hesitantly, as if the earth might start to tilt again, Fareeha pushes herself to her feet. She glances around.

She's in a cemetery. That should not come as as much of a surprise as it does. What surprises her more is that it's one she recognizes only from photographs. She's not in Egypt, as she might have expected. She's in Arlington Cemetery, in the United States. An odd choice. Angela might have said something about the location being some strategic move on the part of the UN. The last weeks had been...enlightening, as to the vast depth of the corruption seeping into the United Nations.

_Angela_.

Fareeha freezes, lungs constricting as her brain kicks into overdrive, connecting the pieces. Fareeha died in the explosion of the Swiss base. By some miracle she was standing, not dead, in Arlington Cemetery. But Angela...

Fareeha whips around, eyes sliding over the marble headstone with her own name in favor of the only one even close enough to hers to possibly be...

For a fraction of a second, everything is suspended in space, a ringing in her ears the only thing she can sense, and then it shatters. Fareeha crumples to her knees in front of the smooth white slab, freshly engraved, like hers, with the name "Angela Ziegler" in thick, clear script.

No. _No_.

Fareeha's fingertips brush over the cut of the "A", as if that could erase it, dismiss an illusion. The headstone's existence seems to warp time and space, making everything else seem disjointed and distorted.

When the grief finally pushes past the cold, stoic wall of disbelief, Fareeha curls into herself. She presses her hands into her eye sockets so hard it hurts, a few stray tears leaking out, sliding down her cheeks. She digs her fingers in further, trying to block out the solid mass in her lungs that simultaneously feels both horribly empty and altogether overwhelmingly much.

The ringing in her ears gets louder, pulsing in time with the roaring static in her chest.

She doesn't move, tries not to think. Angela Ziegler. Dead. Gone.

Eventually, she picks herself up, moving out and away from the twin graves with the sort of neutral air of horror that so many of the grief-stricken carry about themselves. Some of her, she's sure, does not leave Arlington. Some of her stays crouched at the headstone of the woman she loves. But most of her does. At least, she hopes.

Mouth set in a flat line, eyes facing straight ahead, she wanders for a while, not attentive to anything around her, until a light catches her eye. She stares at it, uncomprehending, until her brain catches up and she realizes that she most likely should not be strolling around in the dark, all alone, with the face of an international celebrity.

The light is a streetlamp, and Fareeha watches her breath curl in smoky wreaths of steam in the orange-tinted glow, swirling towards the star-sprinkled sky.

Wait.

The day she died. It was July. Even assuming that she had somehow remained buried for a minimum of three whole months, the air around her was warm -- especially for nighttime. If what she knew about the Southeast United States climate was correct, it surely must still be summer.

She shouldn't be able to see her breath. Yet, there it is, still hanging in a misty haze in front of her. It's...puzzling, to say the least.

Fareeha pushes on until she reaches a gas station, hesitating when, in the light, her breath is visible again. She brushes her hair behind her ear, then freezes again.

It seems the night's surprises aren't yet over. She holds her hand out in front of her, swallowing hard at the dead, greyish pallor of the skin, and the smoke (because that's what it was, of course, not steam at all) rising from a small scar across the back of it.

Shaking, Fareeha walks with clipped steps over to the darkened windows of the convenience store, coming to a full halt at her own reflection.

Her corpse-like skin tone aside, the smoke rising from her skin is apparently also not limited to her hand. One across her nose and a brand-new cross that she vaguely remembers being carved into her cheek in her last moments also waft curls of ash into the summer night air. The most shocking change, though, is her eyes, which glow as if backlit and are now, apparently, pupil-less.

She gapes at the unfamiliar image for a minute, running a thumb over the smoke-bleeding lacerations on her face, the large new one running from her chin to her cheekbone, the sickly color of her skin.

In combination with the dress uniform that has been underground for at the very least a few weeks, and that has definitively not had its physiology altered drastically, she looks like a zombie.

Maybe she is one.

The thought brings her full-circle back to the very first question she'd had back upon first waking in the coffin in Arlington: why wasn't she dead? Or, more accurately, after seeing her own appearance, why was she still standing? She couldn't confidently say that she wasn't dead, but she absolutely was still kicking.

It seems her very existence is a paradox now.

More like medical miracle.

Angela would have probably understood these new changes better than she does. Hell, maybe Angela did something to cause this, whether accidental or purposeful. The thought makes her throat feel tight again.

She can't help but feel that if she did have Angela to thank for the fact that she was still up and walking, she would rather have been left for dead. Especially since, to all appearances, she was on her own.

Well. If there was any one thing she excelled at, it was not leaving well enough alone. And if she was to face a world without Overwatch, as she suspected was the likelihood after the explosion and what she and Angela had found, then she was damn well going to find the root of the corruption and eradicate it.

Even if they tried to fight back, well.

They would hardly be able to stand against someone who was already dead.

*  
Fareeha raids Watchpoints for supplies and information. She shrouds herself in a thick leather coat that reminds her of her old commander's overcoat, and a hood to cover her hair. She carves her own mask out of reinforced wood, slicing the visage of a falcon deep into the polished surface -- for protection, for strength. Her old rocket launcher is lost to the ages, and Angela had always thought it was a bit much, as well (though she'd always insisted it was rather charming). In any case, it was fine for long distance combat, but in potential hand-to-hand, it wasn't viable or subtle. So she picks up a heavy-duty rifle on one of her raids that won't hurt her if she fires it too close-range. She networks, gaining informants and a reputation. When they ask for a name, she uses her mother's old military call-sign, and soon enough, she's on the news, under the same name.

Years go on, and she tucks more and more experience under her belt. Between her constant travels, in her downtime, she braids her hair, just to give her hands something to do. She takes her gun apart and puts it back together. She reconfigures it so it runs smoother. She upgrades it with the rockets she wanted.

Because when she's not fighting through hordes of Talon, or Vishkar, or LumeriCo agents, or collecting information under the alias of Horus, or busying her hands with distractions, she thinks of Angela.

There's a photo she found in one of the old Watchpoints, of her and Angela when Overwatch first was founded -- when it still was just a strike team -- over twenty years ago. They're both young and beaming at the camera, despite Angela's face being covered in dust and grime, and Fareeha's in engine grease and mud. She remembers when it was taken, right after their first mission together as a team. Jesse had gestured for them to stand together, insisting that the victory had been due to Fareeha's leadership and Angela's ability to be wherever she was needed -- keeping them all on their feet. Giddy from a resounding win and an adrenaline rush, Fareeha had laughingly agreed, linking arms with Angela and grinning for the picture.

It had seemed like such a small thing at the time, but now, she considers the photograph one of her most important possessions. And staring at it for too long brings on such a breathtaking hurricane of memories that Fareeha prefers to keep it tucked in the breast pocket of her shirt, under her vest and coat.

Sometimes she wonders what Angela would think of her now -- running around the world, operating in the shadows, obtaining her information from often less-than-ethical sources, and with sometimes rather morally-ambiguous methods. Far from the hero Angela used to hold her as. When that thread of thinking gets too depressing, she shakes herself out of reminiscing and goes back to cleaning her weapon.

And so it goes. Her routine barely changes from one location to the next, for almost six years. Until it does change, unexpectedly, one night.

*

The operation should be simple. Horus's informant had promised that the data was fairly unguarded and highly useful. She merely needs to get in, load the information onto her personal drive, and then destroy the database so that it can't fall into the wrong hands. Easy.

So of course it all goes wrong.

It starts well. Horus wraiths past the first guards, who, as promised, are inattentive and pay no mind to the twisting shadow that slips against the wall, then, very quietly, dispatches both of them. She coalesces back into a solid form, stepping into the Watchpoint like the ghost she is. Ever since her first accidental dissipation in Arlington, Horus had been practicing. Mastering her own...abilities. They were useful in combat and arguably more useful for intimidation. All she has to do is let her lower half swirl into a cloud of black smoke, speak in a somewhat threatening tone, and people will practically give away information for free.

Just past the first corridor is where things go to shit.

Horus was expecting to meet little resistance beyond perhaps a few guards. However, rounding a corner, she's met with another figure who, upon hearing her footsteps, whirls around, lifting what looks like a handgun on steroids.

Horus has to drop her solid form to avoid a full pulse round right to the chest, and she curses quietly in Arabic under her breath. This was not expected. At all.

Meanwhile, the figure spins and runs in the other direction -- straight towards the computer room. They're probably here for the same thing Horus is. And letting them have it is not an option.

She sweeps down the hallway, coming to a stop in front of the figure. To their credit, the figure shows no sign of fear, raising an arm to pistol-whip Horus across the face. Unfortunately -- for them, at least -- Horus is a little faster. She ducks the incoming strike and catches the figure by the arm, using the momentum to turn sharply and slam the other person against the wall. With an arm against their throat, Horus wrestles the pistol from their grip. Breathing heavily, she waits for the figure to stop struggling in vain. Then she speaks, utilizing the tone of voice she keeps for interrogations and squeezing information out of sources.

"Who are you, and what do you want?"

The figure raises their chin defiantly, the little light there is in the corridor glinting off a metal mask covering over half their face. Now that she's closer, Horus can see that her adversary is female, which is confirmed when she speaks, tone sharp. "And why should I tell you?"

Horus presses her forearm a slight bit harder against the woman's neck. Enough to restrict airflow, and definitely enough to remind her of who has the upper hand in this situation. "Because I think you want what I'm after. And like hell you're going to get it, much less without first telling me who you are, and why you are here."

The woman's hands come up to Horus's arm, instinctively tugging at the unbudging appendage. "My name...is Sigrún. I'm here for information from the Watchpoint database on former agents stationed here and projects funded by the UN through this place."

Slightly surprised by the ease at which Sigrún had relented, Horus nonetheless leans in closer. "And that is the truth? You have no accomplices here, and you came for nothing else?"

Sigrún's fingers tighten against her arm. "Yes. Let me down."

With a quiet snarl, Horus lifts her arm to let Sigrún free. "That information is mine. If you try to get it, I'm afraid I'll have to fight you for it."

Rubbing at her throat, Sigrún's head tilts up to look at Horus in what surely would be a glare if it weren't for the visor covering her face. Her fingers clench at her side as if searching for her sidearm, still tightly in Horus's hand. "I sense a distinct power imbalance here," she mutters. "I don't even know your name."

Horus's mouth twists into a frown under her mask. "Horus. Now get out."

Sigrún makes a noise of frustration, then launches herself off the floor in such an unexpected manner that Horus stumbles back a step before catching herself. Sigrún grapples with her for a minute, eventually wresting her gun from Horus's hand and immediately bringing it up, _hard_ , against the side of Horus's skull.

Cursing, Horus brings a hand to the side of her head, a fresh rush of adrenaline mixing with such a high level of annoyance that it might as well be anger when she notices Sigrún running towards the control room again.

A rather immature "Hey!" blurts from her mouth as she scoops her rifle from the floor and follows in quick pursuit. Sigrún is smaller and faster, but Horus's legs are longer, and it doesn't take long before she catches up and has Sigrún pinned against the wall again.

Both breathing heavily, Horus stares in bewilderment at the other woman. Even with her face not being visible, the set of her shoulders and the angle of her chin say nothing less than pure stubborn tenacity, and Horus feels a glimmer of respect despite the cut on her hairline still oozing dark blood and smoke. There's a slight spark of bittersweet memory, too -- the determination reminds her of Angela, but she crushes that thought before it can grow. "Are you serious?"

Horus is surprised by the words that spill out before she can stop them, and apparently Sigrún is too, because her head tilts and she forgets to act defiant. Horus hesitates, not sure what to say after her slip-up, and then, Sigrún snorts. A short laugh.

"Apparently you so more than me," she replies, a sliver of tension releasing from her shoulders. She leans toward Horus in a mirror of the earlier conversation. "I need that information. It could be critical to my mission -- I can't just leave it."

"Neither can I."

"Then why not share?"

Horus's voice sharpens. "What?"

The unmistakeable glare is back, and there's a hint of frustration in Sigrún's voice as she speaks, glancing back down the hallway. "Why don't we work together? Look. There's a fairly small window of time here, and I don't know about you, but I would rather not have to fight you for it. Not to mention you seem like the sort of person one would prefer to have as an ally than an adversary."

The words are casual, almost lighthearted, but Sigrún's tone is frustrated and flat, and Horus got the impression that she was indeed prepared to fight until she was ground into a pulp on the floor for the data she was here for.

Horus's reluctant respect for the woman grows, and she huffs, dropping Sigrún to the ground again. "Fine. Let's go, then."

Sigrún nods once, and wordlessly picks up her pistol from where it had fallen. They fall in step together easily, to Horus's slight surprise, and twenty minutes later, escaping the watchpoint with a wealth of information shared between them, Horus feels (privately, of course) immensely relieved that they had worked together instead of fighting for it. Not only was it far easier to get through the watchpoint's defenses with a partner, but it would have been inversely as hard having to battle someone else at the same time. Not to mention the fact that Sigrún had quickly proved herself extremely formidable.

As soon as they were safely away, Sigrún panting from the breakneck pace and even Horus slightly out of breath, despite her supernatural abilities, Sigrún stops, crossing her arms, giving Horus an odd look discernible only by the tilt of her head.

Horus looks right back. "What?"

Sigrún sighs. "Now what?"

For a moment they're both quiet, facing each other, so still they could've been stone statues in the cold moonlight. Then Horus twitches, turning back towards the forest around them. "If you would like to work together, just ask me."

Sigrún's masked face remains -- naturally -- impassive, but her shoulders drop a quarter inch. There's the slightest hint of warmth in her voice when she says, "Alright then. That infiltration went far smoother with someone watching my back than one without. If you'd like to work together again, I think it could be beneficial, seeing as we both seem to want the same thing."

Horus worries her lip with her teeth behind her mask, mulling the offer over. It was true that her own agenda would be achieved more easily with an ally, but she had worked alone for over half a decade, and the thought of trusting someone again, especially when Angela's death was still a bleeding wound she had yet to staunch -- and might never get rid of -- was...troublesome. Still. Sigrún was a powerful adversary, and it would be far preferable to have someone so capable on her side.

Horus looks back to where Sigrún is standing expectantly, arms still crossed. "I'll keep in touch. I have plenty of informants."

Sigrún's chin lifts slightly. "And what if I need to reach you directly?"

"No one can reach me directly."

Sigrún scoffs. Horus is still as a statue, coolly maintaining her composure. Sigrún makes a frustrated noise at the lack of response, gesturing sharply with a hand at nothing in particular. "What, are you _afraid_ of trusting anyone?"

"Yes." Horus says, baldly, before dropping her solid form and wraithing into the darkness, Sigrún left standing alone under the stars.


End file.
